Poems (May)/The brown mantle
THE BROWN MANTLE.
Write thee her history? why, dear friend, I weave Always a new one. That of yesterday To-day seems trite. Some varying of my mood, Some chance-thrown light upon the picture caught, Still makes me question if I read aright The limner's meaning. I can only guess That not in grief or guilt her soul is drawn Through her raised eyes towards Heaven. Too ripe a hue Crimsons the passionate fulness of her lip; The black profusion of her rippled hair Caught backward from a cheek too rosy clear. She hath been leaning o'er the saintly book Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock Hath parted from the mass, across her brow Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess Her state from her arraying, at her throat The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes; I'd have no change in them. I would not see Even the angel presence of a smile Troubling their darkness. Was she good as fair? How thinkest thou? are not her very looks Teachers of purity? was she high-born? Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God The blossom of her nature? She hath dwelt Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields, Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont To kneel at Romish altars, and I know Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen, I'll think of her as one whose lightest word Angels heard unrebuking; whose pure heart Turned from impurity like a flower that shuts At the approach of night.
Ah, be content! I would not know her history if I could.